Disappearing Letters, Distinctive Mailboxes: A Conundrum

The mail. Now that’s a word which has changed in meaning and importance.

The mail used to be eagerly anticipated. The mailman (before there were mailwomen) might bring good news from a distant relative, expressions of  “I miss you” echoing a romantic evening, a note of congratulations or “send money, please” or “You’re invited to help us celebrate…” The thrill of the unopened envelope was a daily possibility.

Think about the last time you received an actual letter in the mail. Been awhile, right? I’m talking about words-written-or-typed-on-stationary-in-an-envelope-with-a-stamp kind of mail. I think the last real letter I got was from my cousin Myron, who passed away four years ago. He wanted to borrow some money, to tide him over until he got back on his feet. It went unanswered. Myron had never even been on his feet. Family and money - like oil and water. I don’t count letters from Hillary and Donald and Claire as real letters. Not even Whitey Herzog, who writes the most sincere letters about a hearing aid he's pitching, guaranteed to get me back into the conversation. Sorry, guys. Those letters also go unanswered.

This lack of a written diary of our daily lives worries me. What will future historians be able to cobble together about us? Only little parcels of information from emails, tweets, instagrams, and Facebook comments. Not a lot to go on. I have a book of the letters of Abraham Lincoln. Also of Tennessee Williams. The latter is actually more than I want to know about Tennessee. Here’s a historical fact: Two former presidents - John Adams and Thomas Jefferson - exchanged 150 letters between 1812 and 1823. This, incredibly, followed twelve years of silence between them caused by a bitter political feud. But once they made up, the letters flowed like Sam Adams beer. That’s an average of one letter per month, more than I used to write to my mom when I was in the army.  

But we still hold expectations of getting a letter in the mail. I’d even like to get another one from Myron. Actual fact: The sole representative of the people who deliver the mail is the National Association of Letter Carriers. That’s really their name. Founded in 1889, they claim to be “the only force that fights to protect the interests of city letter carriers.” This is not a complaint about our postal service. I think they do a terrific job. I just think the NALC might seem more up-to-date with a relevant name. Maybe National Association of Postage-Paid Carriers. Just a thought.

While I’m on the subject of mail: Consider the lowly state of the mail box. Maybe even yours. As you drive down your street, notice the mail boxes. It seems everyone buys theirs at the same store. A redundancy exists that chills the soul. I don’t understand it. People spend big money on their homes, yards, patios and pools and driveways and - yes, even their awnings and trees. But mailboxes? Bland and black, ignored and ill-conceived, even though we visit them every day. 

There are a few exceptions. Not far from my house live two families who I don’t know but greatly admire.

 
They exhibit pride in their mailboxes. They have impeccable taste, a sense of worth and, yes, a sense of humor. They have discovered that your mailbox can say a lot about you. Their mailboxes transcend the utilitarian into the realm of art.

I doubt if they get more personal letters than the rest of us. But that isn’t the point. Chances are their mailboxes are stuffed with the same materials we get - flyers, brochures, magazines, statements, overdraft notices, lost dog postcards. But it doesn’t matter. Unlike people, it’s what outside that counts. It’s the messenger, not the message.

These public servants were called letter carriers. Then the letters disappeared. Now they are postal workers. They do their job well. But I wonder how many of them miss the thrill of delivering a personalized envelope, hand written, of imagining the delight they bring as they listen for that shout, “The mail’s here!” And the letter awaits, in that distinctive mailbox that says, “I still care.” 

There is still one individual in my family who looks forward to the daily appearance of our mailman. She doesn't get many letters, maybe an occasional catalogue from PetSmart or Drs. Foster and Smith. Which is okay, because she's a slow reader. What she does get, however, is a treat. A Milkbone. Sometimes two or even three, if the mailman's in an expansive mood. 

Here's a suggestion. Next time you think of someone you care about, sit down and write them a letter. Even a note card. Something in your own handwriting. When you put it into the mailbox, I know you'll smile to yourself and realize you've done something worthwhile. And rare. And greatly appreciated. Guaranteed.

This article originally appeared in the autumn issue, 2017, 
of County Living Magazine.

  

A Note of Appreciation to William Goldman While He's Still Alive

A movie made in 1969 and a recent round of emails and Facebook comments are responsible for this posting. It's rather traditional to wait until someone dies before saying all those good things you meant to say before, but then you find out you're too late.

That's why I'm writing about William Goldman now. Not his bio or a tribute, but just what he has meant to me with his ideas and stories and characters, both on the printed page and on the screen (movie, not TV or iPad). 

I watched "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" recently, screenplay by Goldman, and posted a short comment on FB about a particular scene (the card game near the beginning). One of my favorite all-time scenes, a model of perfection.

Card Player #2:  Well, looks like you just about cleaned everybody out, fella. You haven't lost a hand since you got to deal. What's the secret of your success?
 Sundance Kid:  Prayer.

Jeb Schary, who has movies in his veins, commented about Goldman's writing, may just be his favorite writer.
Bill Wine commented with 3 words: "Is it safe?" An unforgettable phrase, frequently repeated in Goldman's movie and novel, "Marathon Man."
Chris Snyder came up with, "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"

Over the past few days, I've thought about how many books by Goldman I've enjoyed and how many of his movies have kept me glued to the screen, all with characters and stories that remain alive in my mind long after the book is closed and the film has ended. 

Here, in no particular order, are my favorites. 
It starts off with the first book I read by him, in 1973. (egads, that was 40 years ago!). "The Princess Bride" is still one of my all-time favorite novels. It's ingeniously structured and a delight to read... and re-read. Others are "Marathon Man," (I gave a copy to my dentist to read the part about drilling the tooth). Other novels are "Tinsel," Magic," and "The Color of Light." 

My non-fiction favorites (Hollywood and Theater observations, with sharp-edged humor and criticism) are "Adventures in the Screen Trade," ""Which Lie Did I Tell?", and "The Season: A Candid Look at Broadway." The last one was written in 1969 and examines why some shows are hits and some flop. Of course Broadway has gone through upheavals since then. Still, it reflects Goldman's love of theater.

As a screenwriter, Goldman is responsible for some of my lasting favorites: "The Princess Bride," the aforementioned "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," "Marathon Man," "Misery," "All the President's Men," "A Bridge Too Far," "No Way to Treat a Lady," and "Harper." I urge you see them all, twice. The first time to enjoy the movie. The second time to listen to the words, the silences, the storyline, the relationships between characters

If you'd like to see and hear Goldman talk about screenwriting, about his books and movies, and what he thinks about Hollywood, I urge you to check out this 90 minute video from The Writers Guild. It's all fascinating, especially the last half hour, when he talks about things more personal for him. It took place in 2010. Actually, it's all relaxed and personal and totally void of ego. 
William Goldman talks about writing

To close out this note of appreciation, here is what Goldman said about his own writing in 2000. 

"Someone pointed out to me that the most sympathetic characters in my books always died miserably. I didn't consciously know I was doing that. I didn't. I mean, I didn't wake up each morning and think, today I think I'll make a really terrific guy so I can kill him. It just worked out that way. I haven't written a novel in over a decade... and someone very wise suggested that I might have stopped writing novels because my rage was gone. It's possible. All this doesn't mean a helluva lot, except probably there is a reason I was the guy who gave Babe over to Szell in the "Is it safe?" scene and that I was the guy who put Westley into The Machine. I think I have a way with pain. When I come to that kind of sequence I have a certain confidence that I can make it play. Because I come from such a dark corner."

Goldman has also said of his work: "I [don’t] like my writing. I wrote a movie called Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and I wrote a novel called The Princess Bride and those are the only two things I’ve ever written, not that I’m proud of, but that I can look at without humiliation."

I'm still hoping for one more novel or screenplay from him. In the meantime, Thanks, Mr. Goldman. You've enriched my life with your words.

The Writer I'm Going To Be

I thought I was a writer, until I heard Richard Ford speak last Friday night at the St. Louis County Library as part of their Read St. Louis Program. This, however, is not a review of the event. (I’m not a critic, though I tend to be critical at times. Ask my wife.) I’m just a guy who likes to write. I've written a few things, some of which I'm happy with, others that I can never get right, most of which I know can be better. Which leads me to often wonder what it must be like to spend time with a great writer, listen to him talk about his writing and mine, hear him read what he’s written, then apply it to what I’ve written or, better yet, what I could be writing.

I’ve never taken criticism easily, but if it were Ford, I would make an exception.

I sat with Peter Carlos. He was sitting on the aisle when I got there, empty chair next to him, and I knew I’d enjoy talking with him. In the half hour we had before Richard appeared, we talked about making movies and videos and writing and editing and teaching. He does all those things. The last time I saw Peter was when I participated in a video program called “Fade Up,” which he produces at Lindenwood. It was a conversation with Mike Wall about “Tillie’s Punctured Romance,” Charlie Chaplin and my novel.

So there we were, these two bearded guys talking creative stuff while waiting for this esteemed writer to enter the packed room, which was growing warmer by the minute. The place was electric with anticipation. I’ve been to other author events there, but this one seemed to achieve a higher level of excitement. After all, Ford has won the Pulitzer and the PEN-Faulkner award.

John Dalton, himself an excellent novelist, introduced Richard with well-chosen words. (How else would you introduce a great writer?) Richard came up to the mic, talked softly, very softly, to the point that the first short story he read was almost lost to the audience. Someone suggested he talk into the mic more directly, which he did after explaining that he talks softly, which we had all figured out, and he launched into a short story he had written some time ago, called “Reunion.” It had its roots in St. Louis and takes place in Grand Central Station in NY. Then he segued into the opening pages of his latest novel, “Canada.” I’ve read the book. Listening to him read that short segment made me want to read it again. A Q&A followed.

Here are a couple of things Mr. Ford said during the evening that struck home with me. He said every writer’s duty, during the course of his writing life, is to put everything down on paper that is important to him. That doesn’t mean opinions and self-focused thoughts, but the things in your life and your world that have meaning to you and you want to say something about. Someone asked him if he’d thought about writing a children’s book or a YA book (young adult). He essentially said “no.” He said it’s not what he’s good at, nor what he wants to write. It would be strictly a “show-offy” thing, as he called it. He knows his strengths and passions, and that’s where he wants to be. He writes every day for 4 hours in the morning and 2 hours after lunch. Every day! In a little shack/hut/cottage down the hill from his home in Maine on the edge of the water - either a lake or the ocean. Doesn’t really matter. 

Richard’s from Mississippi originally but said he doesn’t write about the South because so many others have done it better than he ever could. He mentioned Eudora Welty and William Faulkner and a couple of other writers, one of whom lived in his neighborhood. “In fact,” he said, “I wasn’t even the first one on my block to win the Pulitzer.” So he moved to Michigan, to get out of the South where his non-racist attitudes were at odds with his neighbors. 

Richard maintains a wonderful sense of humor, a strict writing discipline, and the ability to see deeply into people and relationships. I’m not very good at relationships; writing about them anyway. It takes effort. Lots of it. He’s able to capture in a few carefully chosen words what it can take me a paragraph to even get close to. One of the things I could have used along the way was a mentor. Someone who would look at my work and tell me how to improve it. It doesn’t come from open mic nights. It doesn’t happen with friends. Maybe it happens with on-line writing seminars, though I don’t believe it’s personal enough. It’s a long way from the ideal: a placid retreat amidst tall, stately trees and expansive stretches of lawn, a lake or the ocean within strolling distance, and a group of people interested in writing, brought together by men and women who “have done it” and can turn a piercing eye to my pages and pinpoint the excess, the vague, the missed opportunities, as well as the strengths, the occasionally sparkling phrase, the well-developed character. 

That muse calls to me now. “Gerry, move to Greenwich Village. Be 27 years old again, catch Basie at the Vanguard, write all night, drink espresso with unshaven guys and long-tressed women. Or find that cottage in Maine, just a stone’s throw from Richard’s hut or Stephen King’s house. Or maybe discover that cozy cottage near Carmel overlooking the Pacific that needs a caretaker in exchange for rent. There’s a place for you, somewhere a place for you.”

The voice is tempting. What I plan to do, in a more realistic frame of mind, is to buy a trailer and park it on the banks of the River Des Peres, facing west. I’ll have a stack of spiral notebooks and lots of pens and pencils. I’ll also have a laptop but no internet connection. I will escape from the demands of Facebook and Twitter and YouTube and Groupon, and deliver my written masterpieces by hand, in a binder, to an agent or publisher who has been eagerly anticipating their completion. Then, as I await the royalties and reviews, and movie offers from small, independent production companies, I will return to my trailer, pour a half-tumbler of Woodford Reserve, sit in my plaid folding chair and watch the sun set over the river while listening to Bill Evans play “If You Could See Me Now.”

Then I’ll raise my glass to Richard Ford.

Writing is hard, poetry is harder.

I've written a lot of stuff in my life, from 30-second TV commercials to a 317-page novel, with stops along the way including a biography, short stories and plays. But I had never taken a serious shot at poetry. Couldn't be too tough, right? A few lines or stanzas, whatever you call them, some vague thoughts, words that don't rhyme at the end of the line, and an esoteric title having no relationship to the real world. The New Yorker publishes stuff like that every week. 


With that in mind, I submitted two poems to a poetry contest recently. One, a very long poem which I called "Echoes in B-Flat." Very cool, I thought: jazz oriented, musical, visual; a sure winner. First line: "The cool blue neon beckons through the window." Hard to stop reading, right?


 The other poem, much shorter...3 stanzas or paragraphs or whatever...I called "Transplant." Intriguing, you must admit. Opening line: "The first time I met her I knew she was not right for him." That's a grabber, for sure, like the start of a Stephen King or John Grisham novel. I could hear the comments now. "I couldn't put it down." "The fastest three stanzas I've ever read." Things like that.


I mailed the poems in, with my check for $15. I was sure I could add "Poetry Winner" to my list of accomplishments. The results were announced two weeks ago. Nothing. Not a prize, not an Honorable Mention. Not even an addendum to the tally, like "The judges were impressed by a new poet... etc etc." 


Maybe I didn't know enough about the art of poetry. So I got a book from the library. "next word, better word: the craft of writing poetry." Yes, the title was all in lower case, an example of how weird the subject is. Author is stephen dobyns. I picked this book because he wrote a poem once which I actually liked a lot, about a guy and his dog going for a late night ride. And the dog talks to him. Hey, it's poetry.


The book is a revelation. It's like opening a tool box and seeing a bunch of tools you've never seen before and, worse, have no idea how to use. These were the tools of poetry. Let me tell what's in there. First, there's this over-arching premise which sounds exquisite, though I haven't yet conquered its meaning.
"What makes human beings different from any other creature is their sense of possibility. We can speculate about things that don't exist..... This, as well as art and metaphor, dream and humor, is a product of the right brain. The left brain can analyze, but it cannot imagine....It cannot hypothesize. A metaphor - and all art is metaphor - presents us all at once with a complete  totality of meaning that we dwell upon and continue to learn from as we consider its implications."


And I was still on page 6 of the introduction. Skipping nimbly ahead to page 90, I encountered this:
"The two main reasons to have line breaks are rhythm and meaning....A poem's rhythm is by and large influenced by the fact that English is a stressed language...But if the line is broken where no punctuation or syntactic pause exists - if the line is enjambed - then we have an artificial pause, a brief hiccup in the flow of the sentence."


The only person I can imagine understanding that is a proctologist.
Next, a thought I can empathize with.
"In a poem, unlike an anecdote, the reader's question - 'what does this mean?' - is not fully answered by its syntactic closure. We have a sense of more, and so we move past the syntactic closure to reread the poem in search of the scope of that 'more.'"


Now I was really on dobyn's side. He knew I didn't have a clue about writing or reading a poem, and I constantly asked myself - or my dog, if she were nearby - "Just what the hell does THAT mean???" Finally I got near the end of the book, scanning much of it, I admit. Then I came across this section, which turns an analysis of a poem into an accurate description of how those scientists in Geneva recently found the Higgs boson, aka The God Particle.
"The first line begins with a trochee and ends with a pyrrhic and spondee; the second ends with a pyrrhic and spondee, the third beings with a trochee... Affecting our sense of what exists and what should exist is our psychology, our belief system, our history and even comparatively superficial factors such as whether we got a good night's sleep."


I understood the "good night's sleep" concept.


So this is a long-winded way of my telling you, Don't expect any more poetry from this writer. I find it much easier to write a novel, a play, the biography of a failedcaterer, than to attempt another conflict between the two sides of my brain. I can't leave you without naming 3 of my favorite poets. They write poems I can understand. I think. They are Stephen Dobyns, Billy Collins, and George Bilgere. I've attached links to Dobyns and Bilgere. A few poems by Dobyns  A few poems by George Bilgere


So you don't have to wonder about my "Transplant" poem, here's how it begins:


"The first time I met her I knew she was not right for him.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't dislike her.
She smiled and laughed and said the proper things.
I just knew she would wear him down, 
a perpetual grindstone on weathered wood.
She was the oddly shape piece of a puzzle that couldn't
possibly fit into the portrait of a complicated man."


I still think it's pretty good. Just not enough metaphors probably.

Better Than Good. And Even Best.

Mark Twain urged caution about choosing the right adjective. He said "A man's character may be learned from the adjectives which he habitually uses in conversation." If you listen to how people talk, you know what he means. The same can be said of how a writer writes: check out his adjectives. For me, that's one of the most difficult parts of writing (hardest? stressful? laborious?) And too many times I find myself drifting back toward the old stand-by's "good" and "great" and "fast" and "tall." All those vague and tired words. (Are "vague" and "tired" vague and tired? I don't know.)

So it was with relief that I came across, while enjoying a bowl of Shredded Wheat, some marvelous adjectives in a recent New Yorker magazine. "They sure have a way with adjectives," I thought. "I should share these." So, here they are. They were used in the magazine's capsule reviews of "Recitals." I don't know why I was looking in Recitals. I'm not interested in going to one. Most of them are painfully long. And I don't even have plans to go to New York. Shows you how Shredded Wheat can dull the mind.

First there was an "admired violinist" from Japan at Zankel Hall. I wonder who admired him.
Then there was "The superb Baroque ensemble" at Columbia University. I firmly believe that a Baroque ensemble must be "superb" at the minimum to hold an audience for more than six minutes.
Next was the "magisterial pianist"who has thrilled audiences for more than four decades. He's at Carnegie. Is he "magisterial" in the way he plays? Or maybe how he walks or how he dresses. In a cape, perhaps.
Their imagination began to wane here, because the next act was a "superb young British foursome" doing their thing at Alice Tully Hall. I assume "superb" is the minimum price of entry into these pages.
After that came "the renowned group"that performed music by 3 composers I've never heard of, also at Alice Tully Hall. Again, renowned where? New York? London? Zaire?
And finally we have "three distinguished keyboard colleagues" appearing with "the musical major-domo" of something or other. I'm not sure what a "major-domo" is, but it's got to be worth seeing.

You've got to admit, those are better choices of descriptors than "interesting" or "fine" or "really good," even surpassing "popular" and "cool." All you need is the right word to fire the public's interest. Again, to quote Twain: "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between  lightning and a lightning bug." Ladies and gentlemen, choose your words.